North of here
by Shivaun
Summary: After the Reichenbach Fall Sherlock and John travel to Scotland to spend a weekend away from London. But John has not yet forgiven Sherlock. John/Sherlock slash.


_This is a story which is set after the Reichenbach Fall and it contains slash. Moreover, I'm not a native speaker, so I'm very sorry for any mistakes. I didn't know how to rate it, so I just rated it T because of some kissing towards the end of the story._

_I have been to Gairloch in Scotland but the descriptions may not do the actual village justice. _

* * *

><p>John Watson could feel the weight on his shoulders. He stared out of the car window into the sombre landscape. The longer the drive took, the darker the sky became, until it finally began to drizzle and now the rain was pouring down on the car windows and their surroundings were nothing but a gray, formless matter. And the lovely Scottish landscape was not to be seen, although they had passed Hadrian's Wall a few hours ago and John had looked forward to the promise of dark mountains sweeping down to little lakes near the street. But he could see nothing. And the more he saw of that gray nothingness, the more he felt the weight of his depression settle on him again.<p>

He could feel nothing, nothing definite. And he was supposed to be better, he was supposed to leave the dark feelings that had dominated every aspect of his life for the past one and a half years behind him, now that Sherlock was here again, sitting next to him at the wheel and steering the car effortlessly over streets and streets without end, for hours and hours, with the fog becoming thicker every minute. He threw glances at John from time to time, as if to make sure he was still next to him, but John paid no attention. He just watched the rain, thinking of Sherlock's return a few days ago.

Not dead. Not quite as dead as John had thought he was. And back at 221 b Baker Street as if he had never been away, as if he hadn't let John believe for an awful long time that he was dead and gone _forever_. A time in which John had hardly been capable of getting up in the morning, a time in which he could think of nothing else than Sherlock and why he had died and why he hadn't been able to do anything to help him. What had gone through Sherlock's mind before he jumped? Why hadn't he thought of John for just one moment?

But he had thought of John, Sherlock had explained when John had finally got over the shock of seeing him and had been able to accept that this was no figment of his imagination, he was not going insane – although it had certainly felt like insanity. He had thought of nobody except John, he had done it to _protect _him, Sherlock had said.

But it hadn't quite worked out, John thought as he watched the rain drops falling down on the surface of a Loch they were passing. He was alive, that was all that Sherlock had achieved with his _protection_. But he didn't feel like it and he couldn't appreciate Sherlock's return.

"We will soon arrive in Gairloch." John flinched slightly at the sound of Sherlock's deep voice and when he turned to look at his friend, their eyes locked for an instant. He could see a hint of insecurity in Sherlock's eyes that hadn't been there in the time before the...fall. He was not the only one who had changed, John thought and he wondered if they could ever go back to what they were before when there was now so much mistrust and pain and insecurity between them. He didn't feel like he could ever forgive Sherlock for what he had done. And as long as he didn't offer him any kind of forgiveness, Sherlock wouldn't be able to go back to his usual ruthless personality. And John hated to see so much thoughtfulness and caution in him. He didn't want him changed. He had never wanted Sherlock to change.

* * *

><p>Half an hour later they arrived in the little village of Gairloch, a few houses along the coast, surrounded by dark mountains and various little lakes scattered around them. The fog had lifted a bit, so that they could actually see the outlines of the landscape. And for all its beauty, John couldn't help but feel that these were not the right surroundings for a weekend trip away from London. At least not in his state of mind. Too gloomy. He should have gone somewhere sunny, somewhere <em>south.<em> But it had been the first location that had come to his mind when he had needed an excuse to get away from London. Away from Sherlock. Of course he hadn't expected Sherlock to join him and somehow he hadn't been able to tell him to stay in London. But he was angry. He knew that Sherlock had deduced that he wanted to get away from him and he hadn't let him. And here he was, giving in to a man who had let him down, who had betrayed him and played with his feelings. It made him feel sick.

"What are you planning to do tonight?", Sherlock asked carefully as they climbed the stairs to their hotel rooms. The hotel didn't look like a hotel at all, it was more like a little cobblestone cottage with no more than eight rooms for guests. They were lucky to have separated rooms at all, John thought ironically, recalling all the cases in which he had been forced to stay in the same hotel room as Sherlock. It hadn't been unpleasant. It had even been funny sometimes. But momentarily he was not in the mood to spend more time with Sherlock than absolutely necessary.

"I don't know." John shrugged. "I'll probably just go to bed. You know, long journey and all..."

"You are aware of the fact that this is one of only two evenings that you will be spending here?" Sherlock asked. When John shrugged again, he added: "You should try to...'make the most out of it.'" He pronounced the last bit as if he didn't like the expression.

"You may be right, but what is there to do in a little village like this?"

"You chose this destination."

"I know. I probably didn't really think it through." John stopped in front of his room and put his bag on the ground to be able to open the door. When he stepped into the room, Sherlock followed him immediately. "I mean tomorrow we can go walking, but tonight? I guess there is nothing to do." He didn't know why he had said "_We_ can go walking.". After all, he didn't _want_ to go walking with Sherlock. But then again, he could hardly avoid interacting with Sherlock in some way.

"This seems acceptable.", Sherlock answered, obviously pleased with his statement, and then nodded curtly at John. "Goodnight, John." And with that, he left the room.

But John couldn't sleep. It was only 9 pm and although he changed into his pyjamas and lay down on the soft mattress of the bed, he only fell asleep at 1 am. Until then, he stared at the ceiling of the room, and all he could think about was Sherlock. It didn't matter that now he was back. It didn't change a thing, John thought and gritted his teeth. There was still an unbridgeable gulf between them. He was glad to have him back. He was glad that Sherlock was alive. No, he was more than glad, he was euphoric. But he felt that Sherlock was only back for the rest of the world, for Lestrade and Molly and Mrs Hudson and all the crime victims he helped in the cause of justice. Not for him. For him, Sherlock was still far, far away.

* * *

><p>The next day, the sun was at least shining occasionally and they went walking. They passed along the gray lakes and the violet heather on tiny paths that no one else was walking. It felt as if they were alone in the world. John wasn't sure he liked it. There was still too much insecurity between them, they felt too much like strangers. He didn't know what he could talk to Sherlock about and Sherlock didn't seem to know it, either. There only seemed to be one topic to discuss and John was eager to avoid it, although it was inevitable that it would eventually come up. Partly due to this inevitability and partly because he was really curious, he finally asked reluctantly:<p>

"So...what have you been up to in the last one and a half years?"

Sherlock looked up from where he had just knelt down on the ground to examine a strange little yellow flower. His dark curls fell into his eyes as he now lifted his gaze to meet John's.

"I have given you every information necessary regarding that period of time.", he answered steadily. "I have nothing to add."

John felt anger boiling up in him and he made an effort to restrain his feelings. He didn't want to give in to such emotions. He wanted to be as cold and precise as Sherlock. He didn't want to _care_, when he felt that Sherlock didn't, either.

"Yes, but I think you might admit that it is rather difficult to sum up _one and a half years _in a few sentences that basically just say: 'I faked my own death and then I traveled the world and hunted down all members of Moriarty's criminal web and finally I returned to London, so here I am.'" It had come out more violently than he had intended it to be.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"You are still angry.", he said after some moments. "I don't understand."

"I am not angry!", John said with so much anger in his voice that even somebody without Sherlock's keen perception would have detected his feelings easily. "I just think you owe me an explanation better than this. Don't you..." He stopped at the last moment. He was not going to say the words. He was not going to sink so low. 'Don't you care about me at all?' - that was pathetic. Really, it was.

"What more is there to explain?" Sherlock got up from the ground and shook his hair out of his face, his blue eyes piercing into John. A slight breeze was coming up from the nearby lake and Sherlock's long coat shook lightly in it. Sherlock still looked stunning, John thought regretfully. And _he _still couldn't help noticing it. After all this time. So much emotions still in him and he couldn't even look at Sherlock without feeling all that old longing and pain and melancholy. He didn't know what had been worse: The time when he thought Sherlock had died? When he knew that he would never be able to tell him how he felt about him? Or this time, when Sherlock was back, was in his life again, but still out of reach?

Of course it was better to have him back, John reminded himself and he reproached himself for his selfishness. It was good that Sherlock was alive. That was all that mattered, not his own childish feelings for his friend.

"Forget it, Sherlock.", he murmured, suddenly exhausted. "You don't have to explain anything." Quickly, he trudged on along the tiny grassy path, feeling the soft ground beneath his feet. He could hear Sherlock following him and in no time he was walking beside him again.

"John.", Sherlock said quietly. "I have said everything of importance. Everything that is important to me."

"That's okay then.", John answered, betraying no emotion. They were silent for a few minutes, then Sherlock asked:

"And what have been your activities during my absence?"

"I haven't been up to much.", John replied reluctantly. "And I bet Mycroft has told you everything about my activities already.", he added bitterly.

"He has.", Sherlock agreed. "But I wanted to hear it...from your perspective."

"What do you think was my perspective?", John asked vehemently. So much for being all reserved and cold. "I felt terrible all the time, I didn't want to wake up in the morning, I thought I was to blame for your 'suicide'...I missed you, for god's sake. And you, you..." He pressed his lips firmly together and then spat: "You callous, egoistic..." He didn't finish his sentence, just walked on as fast as possible, without being able to avoid Sherlock, who stayed by his side.

But he didn't say anything in his defense. He only walked beside John, as if waiting for more accusations and insults, and when there weren't any, they spent the rest of the walk in silence. They crossed streams and passed Lochs in the shadow of the Scottish mountains without uttering another word.

* * *

><p>That evening, as he lay in the bed of the hotel room, he felt that the loneliness was getting to him again. He had spent many lonely months in the flat at 221 b Baker Street, staring into an empty fireplace with all his wasted thoughts on Sherlock and on golden times long gone. Towards the end, shortly before Sherlock's return, he had gradually been better, he had met some people from time to time, talked again, and even laughed again. Then he hadn't been all that lonely anymore. And when Sherlock had returned, he hadn't had time for such emotions, there was just shock and anger and confusion. But here in the Highlands, with the landscape so beautiful, but so lonesome, and Sherlock with him, but separated from him by so many things unsaid, he felt the whole weight of his loneliness crush onto him again. And he lay there and was certain that he would never be alright again, that he would always feel cut off from the world and the rest of humanity...and from Sherlock. At that thought, tears were running down his cheeks, for he wanted to be with Sherlock, wanted to be connected with him, but only with a Sherlock who cared.<p>

So much despair and unhappiness wasted on someone who didn't care at all, who jumped down a building in front of his best friend – John felt again the old horror at the memory, Sherlock falling and falling and nothing to stop him...and the blood and the terror... - someone who came back months later as if nothing had happened and obviously couldn't even understand why John was upset. Someone who couldn't understand how much effort it had cost John to go on at all.

And as he lay in his bed and hated Sherlock and felt incapable of hating him at the same time, he heard the knock on his door. Sherlock, he thought, it could only be Sherlock. He could just pretend to be asleep.

"John?" Another knock. "John." A short pause. "I know that you are awake."

John sighed and then he quickly grabbed a tissue to dry his eyes. He got up from the bed and shortly glanced at himself in the mirror. He looked okay, he thought, or at least not as if he had been crying. Only a bit as if he had been crying. It would be alright in the dark.

"What's up?", he asked and when Sherlock didn't answer, he opened the door. Sherlock was still wearing his usual clothes. He didn't seem to have made any attempt at sleeping although it was already past midnight. John was used to Sherlock's irregular sleeping hours, but he saw in his friend's face that something had troubled him and that he hadn't been able to sleep for that reason.

"May I come in?", Sherlock asked quietly and John let him pass into the room. He immediately went to the window and stared out into the darkness of the night. John sat down on the bed, feeling a bit uncomfortable in his pyjamas. He wanted to ask Sherlock why he had come, but he didn't feel like hearing his answer, so he just waited, while Sherlock stood there and didn't move. At last, he turned around, leaning against the window sill, examining John carefully. John looked away.

"I don't understand any of this. From what I gathered, you were unhappy due to my absence, so I was expecting you to be glad about my return. Instead, my presence only seems to have plunged you into further depression." One could hear the frustration in Sherlock's voice. He wasn't as cold and aloof as he had been the last few days. And when he heard Sherlock speaking so normally, so very much like a human being, with _feelings _and shortcomings, so very much confused by what was going on, John was almost ready to forgive him.

"I did what I thought was best for all persons involved. I was trying to _save _you...and Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. How can you not see this?" Sherlock pushed himself away from the window sill and stepped towards John. Suddenly, his hands were on John's arms and he pulled him to his feet so that they were now facing each other. John could sense Sherlock's anger and he was surprised. Sherlock was trembling a bit and his eyes sparkled with an amount of emotion that John had never expected of him. And he didn't let go of John, he just stood there, his fingers clinging to John's arms as if he wanted to shake him, to force an answer out of him.

"Sherlock.", John said with as much reason in his voice as possible. It astonished him that he had to calm Sherlock down. Wasn't it supposed to be the other way round? Wasn't it Sherlock who had upset _him_? "Sherlock, please calm down. We can talk about this."

"All I want is an answer.", Sherlock replied vehemently.

"No. No, you don't want that, you want me to go back to the way we were before, you want me to forget that you left me alone for one and a half years, and let me believe you were dead, but I can't do that. I can't, Sherlock. How could I? There is something like feelings, you know.", John said, knowing that he was being unfair. "And you hurt my feelings, as unbelievable as that may sound to you."

"Don't you see the necessity!" Sherlock's voice was now definitely raised and his face was flushed. His grip on John's arms was so firm, it hurt. And he was looking beautiful, John thought, so beautiful. He almost couldn't bear it.

"But you told Mycroft! And Molly!", John retorted. "But not your so-called best friend."

"Yes, but they were able to keep my secret while you..."

"What about me?", John said furiously. "I wouldn't have kept your secret? Are you crazy? When I knew our lives depended on it?"

"You would have wanted to come with me.", Sherlock replied and shook his head. He didn't seem angry anymore, just a bit resigned. "I couldn't allow that. It was too dangerous."

"But you could have written to me once you were gone!"

"And then?", Sherlock answered determinedly. "Then you would have been happy again, all of a sudden. Everybody would have noticed. It would have raised suspicion. It wasn't as if they weren't paying attention. They were observing every single one of your steps." He finally let go of John, but stayed where he was, close to John, looking him directly into the eyes. "I had to make you go through this. There was no choice."

"How can you say there was no choice.", John said and he felt as if he'd start crying now at any moment. He didn't _want_ to cry. Not in front of Sherlock who didn't understand anything about his feelings. "I hate you.", he continued weakly. It was ridiculous. "I hate you because you didn't give me any choice and I..." He couldn't go on. He turned around so that he didn't have to face Sherlock. A moment later, he felt Sherlock's hands on his shoulders and he flinched at the contact. It was bad enough that he was so vulnerable to spill all of his emotions, saying ridiculous sentences like "I hate you.", but it was even worse to be touched by Sherlock when he already felt so weak and humiliated.

"You don't care about me at all, do you.", he said and felt terrible because he had finally uttered what he had wanted to keep to himself forever.

"I thought saving somebody's life would count as caring.", Sherlock answered silently and his hands were beginning to massage John's shoulders and the doctor knew that if his friend continued to do this, he wouldn't be able to stay angry for a long time. He felt Sherlock's body, warm and close to his own, and he swallowed nervously.

"You know that's not what I mean.", John replied, his eyes closed and then he went all silent because Sherlock's hand had wandered from his shoulders to his neck and he was now caressing the soft skin there, while his other hand wound around John's chest and drew him nearer, until he could feel the whole of Sherlock's body against him. And suddenly the hand in his neck was replaced with lips and John held his breath and he realised that this was Sherlock's answer and it was exactly the answer he had longed for. He had meant "Do you care about me?", but he had also wanted to know "Do you care about me _that way_?"

"Sherlock.", he whispered and Sherlock stopped what he was doing and instead slowly turned him around, so that they were now looking at each other again. John felt that he was breathing too fast and he had no idea what he was supposed to do.

"The time of our separation was not exactly pleasant for me.", Sherlock said softly and John felt his whole body tingling at these words and Sherlock's warm breath stroking his face. And he knew that Sherlock had never been closer to admitting that he cared for somebody. No, not for just anybody. For _him. _For John Watson.

It was then that he decided to kiss Sherlock. He pressed his lips against Sherlock's, felt their softness, and wound one hand into his silky dark curls. He felt Sherlock slowly kissing back, opening his lips so that John's tongue could slip between them, while his hands came to rest on John's hips, as he drew him closer and closer, until there was no space left between them. It was wonderful, John thought almost desperately, so wonderful and how he had longed for this for so long and had thought it impossible; Sherlock, forever gone, and no possibility to say all the things he had wanted to say and _do _all the things he had wanted to do...again, he felt tears running down his cheeks. He didn't want Sherlock to notice, but naturally he did and he stopped kissing John and instead hugged him and stroked his face and his back for some time, until finally John stopped crying and just hugged Sherlock back, holding him as tight as possible.

"Sorry.", he murmured and somehow incoherently: "I missed you. Really missed you."

"I'm back.", Sherlock simply said and then he took John by the arm and led him to the window where the darkness was only interrupted by the streetlamps' tiny spots of light. The fog was lingering between them, heavy and melancholy, but beautiful. Sherlock gazed interestedly at the street below them and then said: "I think Scotland proves to be quite a nice destination for our weekend away from London."

John smiled a bit at this.  
>"I don't know. It's probably going to rain all day tomorrow."<p>

"It doesn't matter. Then we stay here at the hotel room. And if it doesn't rain, we go for a walk. The important thing is that the seclusion of this place allows for two people to be alone." The way he said it, it sounded more like a mathematical equation than like a romantic statement. But John understood perfectly. And he knew, although Sherlock hadn't said it with a single word, that Sherlock loved him and had probably felt that way about him for quite some time, just as John had been in love with him long before the unfortunate event that had separated them. He put his arm around Sherlock's waist and leaned against him and for the first time it didn't matter anymore that Sherlock had faked his own death and had left him alone for such a long time.

He was simply glad that Sherlock was back.


End file.
